Remixed and Reloaded

I’m going old school with the flow, biting a rhyme from Uncle L, when I say, “Don’t call it a comeback.” It being the rebirth, the remixing and reloading of The Alternative,
and I could also add that like LL, “I’ve been here for years.” I’ve
been underground, hiding out in darkened theaters, multiplexing my way
above the fray.

What’s it all about, Alfie? What does it mean to be alternative?
That question is still front and center for me, and it will drive the
bus from the backseat, sometimes it might even find itself hanging on
for dear life as other words and phrases and clauses press the gas and
try to steer me clear away from the subject at hand.

Alternatives, though, have become the
norm in the age of New Journalism because alternatives are abound. So
many voices scream and shout that the piercing static is now just so
much white noise. And as we continue to bring the noise, we fracture and
fragment the messages, creating niches within niches within niches.
There is no us, no alternative community, just a collection of
individuals with no sense of the elements that make us who we are.

When the Prez sang, “Let’s Stay
Together,” he was getting a little ahead of himself, much like that hope
that he was promising back during his first campaign. In this case,
we’ve got to get together, in one place, behind one idea before we can
stand and stay as one. Maybe instead of Reverend Al, Obama should have
spit some of the Beastie Boys’ Ill Communication, a little “Get It
Together.” He could honor Adam Yauch (aka MCA) by asking Mitt Romney and
the Republicans to try to “feel what I’m feeling … it’s a musical
masterpiece, hear what I’m hearing, well, that’s cool at least.”

Apparently, that’s a mighty task, putting
yourself in the soles of another, to walk or run that extra mile — but
that’s what MCA, that beast of a Beastie, one of the boys who became men
of the world, represented.

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Those of us of a certain age remember
fighting for our right to party, but the real revolution was to come and
it transcended the music. Yauch embraced Buddhism, started Oscilloscope
Laboratories, an indie film production & distribution company, and
fought cancer to a very too-short end.

His Hall of Fame worthy 47 years, though,
they frighten and inspire me. I’m five years behind him, and although
we try to convince ourselves that with each new decade we look and feel
like the one we’ve just left behind, at 40 a new quieter reality sets
in, especially for men. We know we’re no longer the invincible young
iron men we were, but now we must check in for annual check-ups.

Remember when all we had to do was check the rhymes?

But that’s no excuse to stop playing the game. Back in 2006, when The Alternative’s
initial run came to an abrupt close, I wrapped the cloak of my hip
outsider status around my shoulders and locked myself inside a fortress
of critical passivity. I was a few years shy of the dreaded 4-0, but
ready and willing to turn my back on the action.

And then came Obama’s hope. It was easy
to fall back on cynicism in the face of the election’s call for change.
It was easy because I had never dreamed of seeing the day when a black
president would lead these United States. I sat at home with my wife and
a couple of friends election night, as the results came in I stared in
disbelief at the rising tides swallowing the country whole, and refused
to believe.

Even when the networks called it and
McCain contacted Obama, even after the Inauguration, I refused to buy
in. Let’s see if he makes it past Black History Month, I said, then,
maybe I’ll concede. Every marker came and went and still he, somewhat
unsteadily at times, remained.

What kept me from embracing Obama was
less the historic nature of his accomplishment; it was the fact that he
represented a challenge to me. He was the embodiment of The Alternative. It was alive and well, seemingly without me.

There was nothing perfect about it. To my
mind, Obama had compromised away all of the hope and change in his
pockets and then stripped off his suit and tie for good measure, which
justified my doubts, but somehow he had touched a nerve. Every time he
stood in front of the cameras and was broadcast either live or via
YouTube, there he was addressing me directly, calling me out. He was in
the game.

And I needed to get back in because while
I had been watching and waiting, Cincinnati had begun to take this
“itty bitty world by storm” and was just getting warm. The region was
experiencing real growing pains. While glazing over in theaters, I had
failed to adequately acknowledge the steady shift in regional
filmmaking. Restaurant culture, which dominated television (everything
from a host of Travel Channel spotlights on global cuisine to a
multitude of competitive cooking shows), teased our collective palates.
Heroes were rising in the arts community and there was something very
familiar about them. We could see them in the crowd-sourced short Radius, that perfect reflection.

For me, Radius was the final piece of the alternative puzzle. It made me see that I was, once again, part of The Alternative. And more importantly, the once and future Queen City was ready to step into the spotlight.